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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188914">Kintsugi</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald'>Sam_the_Skald</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Caretaking, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I can't keep this from getting romantic, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Maybe some Smooching later, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Role Reversal, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is trying, Trust Issues, wound care</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:56:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kintsugi is the Japanese method of repairing pottery with gold.<br/>"As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise." (wikipedia.org/wiki/kintsugi)<br/>--<br/>It’s like a nightmare.</p><p>John looks like he is about to speak, but then Mrs. Hudson’s voice precedes her entrance to the flat. “Boys? What have you done this – Oh, John!” She wails, clutching her hands in front of her chest. </p><p>“Call an ambulance, Mrs. Hudson” Sherlock points in her direction, trying to get her eyes on him instead. “Please.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A story idea landed in my brain and refused to leave!<br/>I didn't want it to get away, so... here.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hello, thank you for reading! This is my first attempt at hurt/comfort and present tense - please let me know what you think? :)</p>
<p>Edited 2/25/21:<br/>I noticed all kinds of grammatical errors that really bothered me, so I am going through and updating each chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On the mornings when something goes wrong, it is typically John who is awoken by a loud noise coming from the kitchen and Sherlock cursing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On this particular day, however, it is reversed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is an ungodly loud POP on the other side of his bedroom wall, followed by the tinkling of what sounds like glass shards. Sherlock sits up in bed, immediately awake, and listens carefully while pulling on pyjama bottoms and fishing under his bed for his slippers. He is concerned when he doesn’t immediately hear anything else. Was John ok? Under normal circumstances, he’d be swearing a blue streak if something broke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, the kitchen faucet goes on, thankfully signifying John is not dead but Sherlock still hasn’t quite deduced what happened until he steps out of the bedroom doorway and peeks his head around the corner into the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John has his back to him, facing the sink. Sherlock sees the culprit of the bang, and is suddenly very alarmed indeed. Their clear plastic electric kettle is, for lack of a better term, <em> exploded </em> all about the kitchen. There is still steaming water and jagged pieces of fractured kettle all over the counter and the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John.” His voice is deep and thick with worry in his throat. He whips quickly around to the other side of the kitchen through the hall to avoid the mess. From this angle, he sees John’s deep green jumper roughly bunched up over his elbows and his forearms thrust under the stream of the faucet, and he is shaking. The skin on his hands and arms are bright, bright red, and there is blood coming from somewhere circling the drain. It’s like a nightmare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks like he is about to speak, but then Mrs. Hudson’s voice precedes her entrance to the flat. “Boys? What have you done this – Oh, <em> John </em>!” She wails, clutching her hands in front of her chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call an ambulance, Mrs. Hudson” Sherlock points in her direction, trying to get her eyes focused on him instead. “Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shakes again, which only makes Sherlock more alarmed. It wasn’t like the army doctor to be so unnerved, especially about injuries. As Mrs. Hudson hops to the telephone, he steps to John, very cautiously and gently putting one hand on each shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John jumps slightly at the touch, and turns his whole body to look up at Sherlock as if he hadn’t been aware anyone had been speaking. “Sherlock?” His voice sounds thin and wheezy. “It just... burst, I don’t know what- what happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock shushes him gently, using the pressure of his hands on John’s shoulders to guide his burned arms back under the water. John is clearly rattled and not quite seated in reality. The sharp noise plus the pain must have put him in a panic, or maybe shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright.” Sherlock intones, internally cursing the waver in his words. “Paramedics are on their way, you’re going to be fine, John. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John just blinks at him, hard, his mouth and brow are both tense. He looks so fragile and unsure. Sherlock feels a hairline fracture travel down his chest, through his heart to his stomach. He is admittedly not very good at this – caring for injuries is John’s area, and therefore something he rarely has to practice. He awkwardly adjusts his focus to John’s hands instead, much more comfortable coming at this from a detached evaluative observational stance than trying to calm an injured, panicked war veteran.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s fingers and the backs of his hands are distressingly white, indicating second degree burns, and the tissue around that is scarlet and angry looking. A couple of his fingers have gouges, probably from flying shards of plastic. One looks particularly deep and is still bleeding, it will definitely need stitches. Acutely aware of his limited medical knowledge, Sherlock hazards a guess of several days, if not weeks of recovery time. The metaphorical fracture in his chest grinds again at the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson comes up behind with two paramedics that Sherlock hadn’t even heard come up the stairs. He reluctantly leaves his post at John’s side and picks his way through the now cooled puddle to his bedroom to put on more appropriate clothes. While he dresses, he deliberates back and forth, before finally texting Mycroft and requests some string-pulling for John’s care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He will have to owe Big Brother a favor, but it will hopefully be worth it if John can get use of his hands back quickly...</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A trip to the A&amp;E</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heads up: Discussion of PTSD symptoms </p>
<p>I fade to black before describing putting in sutures, though, because... no thanks.</p>
<p>Thank you for reading! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The cab ride to the hospital with Mrs. Hudson is blessedly quick, and they arrive not long after John has been wheeled into a trauma room. The sterile lighting and tense, controlled chaos of the A&amp;E foyer makes Sherlock’s skin ripple uncomfortably. Mrs. Hudson gets the information they need from the nurse at the counter while he ran long fingers through his hair, over his scalp, trying to remind himself to take deep breaths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s going to be </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>okay,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> the injuries were not life threatening, John’s going to be okay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make their way down the hall, a strange rhythm of long strides and shorter, quicker staccato, until they find a window framing their quarry. John sits up on the side of the hospital bed, holding out his arms for the nurses to apply cooling burn cream and bandages. Mrs. Hudson gives a quiet knock and Sherlock studies his </span>
  <span>flatmate’s</span>
  <span> expression. He looks inexplicably calm, but how is that possible? The knock draws his attention to the window and their eyes meet. Sherlock sees, briefly, all the other emotions locked up under the façade before they are wiped away and John is the rigid, collected army doctor again. He gives Sherlock a small nod, and then he turns to Mrs. Hudson’s entrance and onslaught of worry and questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, at least he is less disoriented now. It’s a small comfort – seeing the disassociation at the sink had been almost worse than witnessing the burns themselves. At least after John's nightmares, he could rationalize the disconnect with reality on John being not quite awake yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock leans against the doorframe, hesitant to make the room more crowded while the nurses do their work. One of the fingers on John’s right hand is still unbandaged, instead a fluffy wad of gauze holds it up and away from his other fingers, and there are dots of blood coming through in the center.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sounds of wheeled metal tray rattle up behind him and someone clears their throat in a way that straddles polite and insistent. “Coming through, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock dodges into the room as a man in scrubs rolls in the tray with equipment for sutures, slotting himself between his two peers who were finishing up their work, securing the bandages just below John’s elbows. It’s all very efficient. Mrs. Hudson snags the attention of the nurse who finishes her bandages first about home care. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Always the practical one, Hudders</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They exit into the hallway, still prattling on, leaving Sherlock, John and two nurses in the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The one with the tray starts removing the gauze, no doubt to begin stitching up John’s finger. The other settles her hand on John’s shoulder, asking him questions about how he is feeling. Probably trying to distract him from what’s to come. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, watching the interaction with silent heat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>They are only in the A&amp;E for two hours before John is released. Thanks to Mycroft’s resources, they are able to prove to the presiding doctor they will have a nurse doing house-visits to Baker Street daily until John’s follow-up appointment next week, which gives them leverage to go home quicker than normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lestrade even came by to give them all a lift in his personal car so John wouldn’t have to be thrashed around in a cab on the way home. Sherlock has barely said a word since they left 221B and is in a proper sulk by the time they are back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson is wiped out by the whole affair and barely hides her limp as she makes her way to take a bit of a lie down. Lestrade and Sherlock coddle John up the stairs and he makes very clear, seething as quiet as possible to not wake their landlady, how much he does not appreciate it. Sherlock can see how very tired his eyes are, however, and lets the verbal abuse roll off in silence. Lestrade makes an attempt to remind John to behave, they were only trying to help, but all it does is prompt John to clamp down on how he is feeling even further. He is a pit of emotional magma under a quickly crumbling crust of control at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The second explosion of the day is sure to be just as fun as the first one. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He muses bitterly. They manage to settle John on the sofa and Sherlock dismissing Lestrade brusquely with the pretense of letting the patient rest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels as if he had just run a marathon, and he breathes with his back against the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, most horrifying of all, John bursts into tears.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thank you for all your wonderful comments and kudos! </p>
<p>Welcome to the Awkward Zone, population: 2.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>To John’s credit, he has the tears fully buttoned back up before Sherlock has a chance to process and react. Or rather, he doesn’t process the tears at all and reacts by standing frozen near the door until they stop.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His coat and scarf are half-flung at the coat hooks while trying to keep his eyes on John. Tentatively kneeling next to the sofa, Sherlock offers quiet support. He has no idea what to say in this circumstance. Well, he knows a myriad of things he could say, but probably shouldn’t.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With the nurse’s help and proper bandage maintenance, it is possible you could have use of your hands again by next week. Did you know burns turn white when they reach the fatty layer beneath the skin? I wonder why the kettle exploded; did you do anything different this morning? Seeing you hurt and scared was horrible, please don’t ever do that again.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry.” John says in a raspy whisper, clearing his throat. Sherlock only watches, shifting his position slightly on the rug. They are almost of a height like this, but both are avoiding the other man’s eyes. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next few minutes pass like hours of excruciatingly awkward silence. Sherlock is restless on his knees, John is miserable. At one point, Sherlock very nearly jumps up thinking he will make them tea, but then remembers he can’t. Maybe he will ask for some when Mrs. Hudson wakes up.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, the tension breaks and John sighs. “Get off the floor, you madman. What are you down there for?”</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- ah...” Sherlock stands and brushes off his trousers absentmindedly. He carefully picks a path around John to not jostle his arms and sits on the other end of the sofa. “I thought maybe you would seek comfort. So, I tried to be... close?” His face winces into a frown at his own stumbling, embarrassed.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s mouth twitches into an almost-smile. Then, his eyes raise up to the ceiling with not-quite-fallen tears at the bottom rim, the near smile warped into a tense grimace. He pulls in a shaky breath, trying desperately to keep his arms still. Sherlock stands up again, moving around the coffee table to stand between John and the kitchen.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in pain.” The words are out before he can edit them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obviously, you idiot. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Some ice, maybe? I could go to the pharmacy to fill that prescription the A&amp;E gave you?”</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” John says quickly, now looking him right in the eyes. His deep blue ones are surrounded by red from crying and pain. “You’re not getting pain killers on your own.” </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not going to pilfer your prescription drugs.” Sherlock tries to play it off as dismissive, but he is disappointed when it sounds more than a little hurt. John doesn’t trust him.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still. They are in my name, you can’t go.” John sets his jaw; he is not backing down. Then, quieter: “Though... the ice might do.” </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>At peak walking-on-eggshells awkwardness, they make it until Mrs. Hudson arrives with tea and biscuits about an hour and a half later. John is in his armchair, dozing, while Sherlock watches him intently. He jumps up when the landlady arrives, helping her carry the plate of treats. She comments on how helpful he is, and he grumbles at her. She tuts at John’s sleeping form and creeps back down the stairs.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Very, very gently, Sherlock puts his hand on John’s right shoulder. His eyes open immediately and then hisses in a breath as if the pain had all rushed back at once.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tea?” Sherlock asks, showing him the cup. John unthinkingly reaches for it and then cries out softly. Whispering curses at himself, he opts to just nod instead.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>With as steady hands as he could muster, Sherlock holds the cup at John’s lips and then starts tilting. He muses how very bizarre this day has become, pulling the cup back and setting it on the side table. Despite the odd interaction, John seems to relax.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ta...” He says quietly. “Did she bring biscuits, too? I’m famished.”</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Though, we could think about a more substantial meal after this?” Sherlock picks up a biscuit daintily and presents it in front of John’s mouth. The blond hesitates, but then gingerly takes a crunchy bite. Crumbs go in his lap, but the other half waits where it is until he finishes chewing. John’s cheeks burn pink in a rare blush. Deductions fly by Sherlock’s eyes, flicking across John’s face.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Embarrassed? Helpless, frustrated. … Adorable. No! Focus.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John doesn’t ask for another biscuit, but consents to discussing a proper dinner. They end up ordering something for delivery, and Sherlock texts Mycroft for contact information on the nurse that is supposedly showing up. There is no way in hell John will allow him to fork feed him chow mein, so he will need back up soon.</span>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A nurse, a puzzle, and a sleepy John.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi, sorry this is so short. I noticed I've been meandering between past and present tense as I'm writing, so I'm trying hard to keep that under control. It's a bad habit I've had since high school. So, I've been editing and reposting chapters for both my WIPs and it was sucking up what little time I had to dedicate to writing.</p>
<p>I've also been a bit unwell the last week or so, and my motivation to sit and write was abysmal. </p>
<p>I hope this tides you over until I can get some more steam (and words) built up!</p>
<p>Thank you, as always, for the kind comments and kudos. They really do help. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>With the help of the tall, sandy brown-haired nurse named Jeremy, Sherlock was able to assist feeding, bathing, and getting John up to bed. It was a trying few hours on all of them, though Jeremy took John’s red-faced mix of fury and embarrassment a lot better than the consulting detective did. It was not unlike dealing with a fussy toddler with a more varied, and vulgar, vocabulary. Not exactly Sherlock’s best area.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flops his long, tired body to the sofa after Jeremy leaves for the evening, burying his face into a pillow to hide the groan that escapes. It’s a mixture of acute relief and residual concern. John is finally upstairs, hopefully resting with help from his pain medication and fresh bandages Jeremy had helpfully brought along. But just in case John calls out for help, Sherlock decides to stay in the sitting room tonight, listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waiting quietly to see if John wakes back up lasted for approximately 2 minutes 45 seconds before Sherlock launched himself up and goes to investigate the exploded kettle. Mrs. Hudson had graciously helped clean up the shards of plastic and electronics all over the kitchen, but Sherlock insisted she leave them behind. He now dumps them all out on the wooden surface of the table, pulls the chair up close as quietly as he can manage, and sets his mind to puzzle the carnage back together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hours of silence and tinkering later, in the early hours of the next day, Sherlock is grumbling over the last bit of wiring he can’t quite recreate. The frustration builds, especially since all of this work still hasn’t revealed the reason the usually reliable household appliance mysteriously turned into a small shrapnel bomb. Sherlock finds himself wishing he had woken up earlier so it would have been him making tea, instead of John. Of the two of them, John was the </span>
  <span>more cruel</span>
  <span> victim of an unexpected, violent kitchen malfunction. And arguably the worse patient, in Sherlock’s opinion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, Sherlock heard unsteady footsteps on the stairs and stands up from the chair in one motion, sending the seat skittering backward. He is at the base of the stairs looking up at his wobbly, injured blogger in seconds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John.” His sharp, silver eyes flicker over the </span>
  <span>pyjama</span>
  <span> clad figure, trying to </span>
  <span>ascertain</span>
  <span> why he’s up at half one. “What do you need?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“M’thirsty.” John mumbles. He must be still affected by the pain meds, as he tries to steady himself on the hand railing and lets out a quiet whine. His brows knit together over closed eyes, standing still and breathing through the sting. Sherlock takes the stairs separating them two at a time, gently placing a hand just above John’s left elbow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We left water on your end table, John. Let’s go back to bed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did?” John asks softly, still disoriented. Sherlock’s chest tightens at the similarity to earlier, at the sink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” Turning John around to go back up the stairs in his state takes some doing, but thankfully they arrive back in his room without further incident. Sure enough, an untouched glass of water with a </span>
  <span>straw sits</span>
  <span> beside the bed which Sherlock then holds close for John to take a drink. The doctor thanks him sheepishly and makes his best attempt at getting tucked back in without use of his hands. When this doesn’t go to plan, he instead kicks at the blankets angrily and rolls away from Sherlock in a cranky huff. Since John wasn’t looking, Sherlock takes the opportunity to roll his eyes at the petulance on display but wisely says nothing. He does, however, pull and straighten the sheets back into place and give John’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before carefully extracting himself from the room.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits until he is all the way down the stairs to exhale the sigh he is holding, glad to have escaped the encounter relatively unscathed. He takes a few steps in the direction of the kitchen and the Frankenstein’s monster that was previously a kettle, but only stares at it tiredly. Midway through a step, he pivots to the right and deposits himself onto the sofa again, instead. He can’t make any headway in the kettle puzzle until he gets some sleep. Maybe the light of day will help, somehow.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Despite his best hopes of foul play or exciting mystery, Sherlock finally throws out the pieces of ruptured kettle in the bin in the early dawn hours when it became clear there was nothing of the sort. With the best of his ability to rebuild the appliance, he finds there were two or three warped edges to the plastic bits that seem to indicate there were stress fractures from age and repetitive use that had given up rather dramatically, taking the rest of the carafe with them. Shame, really. Planting a mini-explosive in a tea kettle would be a very interesting murder case (especially apt for London).</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>But no. John was not murdered and the kettle was merely old and tired. Not that he wanted John to be murdered, via suicidal kitchen appliance or otherwise. Quite the opposite, Sherlock muses. His blogger, his friend, his conductor of light was essential to the Work. The thought of him harmed is distressing, which is a large part of why he had been up most of the night trying to ascertain the how the current injuries occurred and pointedly NOT thinking about the ache in his sternum that occurs when the memory floats back up from his Mind Palace.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He spends a few minutes perusing the internet for a new kettle that could be delivered same-day, and then settles into trying not to fidget waiting for John to come downstairs. Should he try to cook something? Would John need help with his clothes? He doesn’t know, and it was maddening. Sherlock feels frustration mounting pressure behind his eyes. There was a very good reason why John was the one to take care of him and not the other way around!</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock slips into his mind palace, pacing the well-worn path in the rug between the sofa and the mantle, carefully avoiding the coffee table and the armchairs even with his eyes mostly closed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What would John do, were our situation reversed?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Now armed with more data, Sherlock takes the steaming cup of tea (he had boiled the water in a sauce pan out of desperation) and the morning paper up the stairs to John’s room. He hears a grunt on the other side of the door and knocks.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“John? Can I help?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sod off!” Is John’s vehement reply, followed by another sound, which Sherlock suspects is a painful groan. He pushes the door open without further preamble. He is greeted with a warning growl of an angry army doctor who sits nude from the waist down on the bed, trying to pull on a clean pair of pants over his feet with stiff, bandaged hands. Sherlock is honestly impressed he had made it this far.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You mad, stubborn </span>
  <span>arse</span>
  <span>.” He can’t help but smirk, setting the paper and tea on the top of the wardrobe. He pushes himself into John’s personal space in an attempt to assist and is met with rigid defiance.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Sherlock, get out of my room.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please, John. Now is not the time to be modest, you simply can’t do this by yourself until your hands are more healed. Stop pushing me! You are being completely unreasonable. John!” Out of context, the battle over control of John’s undergarments would have been wildly hilarious but given the doctor was actively choosing pain over assistance was starting to worry Sherlock. Maybe the lack of trust seen earlier with the pain medications ran deeper than he realized? Or is this man really that bull headed? (He suspected a little of both.)</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>At some point John gave up, and allows himself to be stood up and assisted with being dressed, looking both peeved and dejected. The tightness around his eyes told Sherlock the pain in his tender, blistered skin probably became too much to continue fighting after flexing and pushing in their childish spat. The younger man scowled at the thought of having to break John down to humiliated and miserable enough to accept help.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Wasn’t he supposed to have been a soldier? Wasn’t this rebellious stubbornness re-programmed out of him in basic training? He contemplates using a more forceful tone next time to imitate a command, but doubted that would have the desired effect. If anything, John would probably be offended and get even more agitated.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock gently handed the now </span>
  <span>luke</span>
  <span>-warm tea mug to John, and showed him the newspaper.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we go downstairs now, like civilized people?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John at least had the grace to look sheepish.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy arrived about two hours later, and took over helping John with the rest of his daily routine. The new kettle arrived, along with a delivery of Indian food paid for by Mycroft. Sherlock begrudgingly texted him a thank you.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>: What crisis of the crown will I need to unravel to repay you? -SH</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>: It appears you have crises aplenty of your own, brother mine.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scowls at the corner of the sitting room where he suspects Mycroft’s security camera lurks, mouthing choice expletives at it for good measure. He was never in the mood to be deduced by his dear older brother, but especially not now.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The food nearly made up for having to speak to him, however. It was high quality, and Sherlock found himself eating until he was quite full. John’s spirits also seem to improve with a good, warm meal. The three of them discuss John taking on some self-care as his hands heal, such as reapplying fresh bandages with burn cream, but it will still be a few days before he can dress and wash himself. Sherlock does his very best to not appear smug with ‘I told you so’, but he gets a dirty look from John anyway so it must not have worked.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jeremy takes John to have a quick bath, and Sherlock feels the digesting of food start to slow down his mental processes. It isn’t entirely unpleasant to doze on the sofa, listening to the men talk down the hall. He finds himself half-dreaming he was in the bath, too. He can feel the humid warmth of the air and the mild weightlessness of the hot water is relaxing. Someone is running their fingers in his hair and it feels divine... He sighs and leaned into the body behind him with a smile, and the deft fingers in his curls move to encircle his torso in a sweet embrace.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>John...</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>(Insert gif of SPN Crowley hatefully spitting out the word "Feelings")</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sherlock sits up, suddenly awake, at the sound of the bathroom door opening. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip; his mouth was strangely dry. Yet, he seems to remember dreaming about water. How strange. He watches silently as John and Jeremy exchange goodbyes and the nurse leaves for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crap telly?” Sherlock suggests, gesturing at the sofa next to him. John seems to hesitate, but then shrugs and sits. Flipping through the channels, Sherlock settles on a sufficiently mind-numbing program involving a BBC documentary about how candy ribbon is made. He turns his body to John, tucking his left foot under the opposite thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John, are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lifts his arms just slightly, and imitates Sherlock’s trademark ‘stop being an idiot’ look. (Rather well, too.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obviously, not your arms. I meant you seem angry at me when I am trying to help you. Have I done something... not good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches a cascade of emotions flow over John’s features, faster than he could reliably decipher. He picks out some, mostly negative – guilt, fear, more anger – and feels his frown deepen. The blond sighs loudly, but still </span>
  <span>doesn’t</span>
  <span> speak. The silence prickles at Sherlock’s skin, doing nothing to assuage the feeling that he had unknowingly done damage to their relationship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <span>telly</span>
  <span> flickers and drones quietly as they sit for three minutes and twenty four seconds – John hesitating and Sherlock anticipating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” John says, almost too quiet to be heard. He clears his throat and starts again, louder. “No. You’ve been good. Great. I’m the one who is being a prat. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, why -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look. I hate this.” John winds himself into a proper shout, forehead creased with effort and emotion. “I hate being injured, I hate feeling helpless, I hate not being able to feed myself or wipe my own </span>
  <span>arse</span>
  <span> without someone’s help. I fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate it</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his usual best efforts to appear unaffected, Sherlock must look alarmed because when their eyes meet John’s anger dissolves again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit. I am so sorry. I’m not angry at you, I'm just... angry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, John. It’s... Well, it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I understand. If it helps, shout all you need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With no hesitation at all, John lifts his face and lets out a deep, primal yell at the ceiling. It sounds as if he were riding into certain death on an ancient battlefield, full of pain and rage and fear. Afterward, the only sounds were the buzzing television and John’s panting. Through the floor, they both catch Mrs. Hudson’s muffled voice. The words are diluted, but the tone is clear – “Sometimes I just don’t know about those two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John leans back into the sofa and breaks up into an uncontrollable peal of giggles, gingerly crossing his bandaged arms across his belly. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson!” He yells and collapses into laughter again. </span>
  <span>Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but finds nothing comes out. He is not often stunned into silence, but he honestly has no idea how to respond. Seeing John in a good mood was definitely welcome, though, so he watches his friend with a smile pulling at one side of his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once John’s giggles subside, they settle into a comfortable silence until the older man starts yawning at frequent intervals. Sherlock switches off the </span>
  <span>telly</span>
  <span>, makes sure John has his pain meds, and accompanies him up the stairs to the bedroom. Though it is mildly awkward, there is no fight when Sherlock assists with changing John out of his clothes to soft </span>
  <span>pyjamas</span>
  <span>. He pulls down the blankets and leaves John to get into bed to refill the water glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock?” John’s voice was already breathy with sleep when he returned to set the water on the nightstand. Sherlock responds with a vague affirmative noise while turning off the lamp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you... stay? Until I fall asleep? I...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he is surprised by the request, Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, John.” Slipping off his shoes, he carefully </span>
  <span>manoeuvres</span>
  <span> to the far side of the bed against the wall, staying on top of the blankets. He folds his left arm under his head, facing John’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now what? This wasn’t entirely uncharted territory, they sometimes had to share a bed on cases outside of London, but Sherlock wasn’t trying to comfort the man lying next to him at those times. He settles his hand on John’s shoulder gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly asleep and now mildly drugged, John only hums softly. His breathing settles into a steady, deep rhythm as Sherlock watches. He intends to wait for about five more minutes, to make sure sleep has fully taken hold and not wake John while clambering back out of the bed. Drifting in his thoughts, watching John breathe, still comfortably full of curry, Sherlock is dreaming before he realizes he’s dozed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, his dreams are anxious. He is late to something very important, and he’s forgotten something. He checks the pockets of his </span>
  <span>Belstaff</span>
  <span> – keys, mobile, wallet... What is it? He can’t leave without the missing item, but he can’t even recall what it is. He wracks his brain, frustrated, while painfully aware of the ticking of the clock. The dream shifts and he is running, chasing or being chased. He isn’t sure which, but it is vitally important to maintain this speed. He shoves people out of his way, dodging bicycles and skips and whatever other random debris the dreamscape throws into his path. In his heart, he knows he is too slow, too late, but he is desperately trying anyway. It goes dark around him and this time, he is in a shouting match with someone. It is a battle of wills, and he feels confident. However, as time goes on his cool, rational intellect doesn’t seem to be a match for fiery passion and rage. His opponent seems to grow in size with their vehemence and he in turn shrinks under them, feeling small and afraid. He finds himself reminded of the string of school bullies he’d endured, trying to take out their own internal issues on the easy target he presented. Unwilling to cower, Sherlock pushes back against the red-faced giant despite the feeling they were slowly eroding him down to nothing. He doesn’t even know what they are fighting about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s movement in the bed, and Sherlock wakes feeling hollowed out. Sad and lost. He opens his eyes to find John had rolled over in his sleep, now facing him. The hall light was still on, casting John’s face in long shadows. He looked simultaneously ominous and delicate. The fracture Sherlock had felt in his chest at the sight of John’s injuries cracks and gives way to reveal a hole straight to his heart. An open wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whether it was the emotion-filled day, the dreams, or the very recent shattering realization that he is in love with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes curls up on himself and weeps as silently as possible until he falls back to sleep.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry about the angsty ending... :(</p><p>Thank you so much for reading! This fic has exactly 1,000 hits at the time I posted this chapter, which blows my mind.<br/>I am really grateful and humbled that people are reading (and hopefully enjoying) these stories my brain cooks up. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John needs a little help</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you SO MUCH for the 100+ Kudos!! I am sooo happy people are enjoying my lil plot bunny! :)</p><p> </p><p>Heads up, there is a somewhat graphic description of John's injuries. I put a line of asterisks (***) so anyone can skip it if needed.</p><p>Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Deep in the comfortable warm blackness of a dreamless sleep, a voice drifts down to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock?”  </span>
</p><p>
He fights to stay asleep in the quiet dark. Safe from light and sound, from too-quick thoughts, from twice-cursed feelings about a certain flatmate. A certain flatmate who is injured and currently <em> lying in bed right next to him </em> - His consciousness rockets to the surface immediately but Sherlock stubbornly refuses to open his eyes yet. There is movement behind him, and a warmth settles very, very softly on his arm. He doesn’t have to look to know it is John’s bandaged hand. Sherlock groans softly and nuzzles into the pillow, putting up a weak rebellion to the idea of wakefulness.
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock? I’m sorry to wake you.” John’s voice is rough from sleep, but clearly needs something. He would have tried to do it himself otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“T’is it?” Sherlock turns his head only, peering over his shoulder. He didn’t want to roll over and crush John’s arms. It is still dark, probably only an hour or two since he last woke up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need the loo.” John sighs, frustrated. “But these damn... uh. Things. Pills. I’m groggy still.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several thoughts race through Sherlock’s vision before he acts without question, crawling as carefully as possible out of the bed and then helping John to standing. They make it down the stairs to the bathroom with John leaning heavily into Sherlock’s body for support. Once inside, though, he leaves John to fend for himself.  Given his progress with dressing himself the other day, it can safely be assumed John can push down his own pyjama bottoms without assistance, but Sherlock does leave the door open a crack and hovers awkwardly outside, just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might be we should talk to Jeremy about lowering your dosage.” Sherlock muses, trying valiantly to pretend this was completely normal. There are the sounds of a flush toilet and the door opens behind him. A grumpy looking army doctor emerges, and shuffles to flop into his armchair with a grunt. Sherlock follows cautiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I see your bandages?” He sits in his own chair to face John, who holds out his arms with his hands dangling but makes no other moves to get closer. Sherlock rolls his eyes minutely, but obliges the petulance since John has been more than patient with him in similar moods. Sitting forward as far as he can, feet and knees on the outside of John’s, Sherlock’s eyes scour the gauze surrounding John’s burns. He very gently presses into John’s upper arms to encourage him to rotate them, palms up. There doesn’t appear to be any new speckles of blood from the cuts, which is a good sign. Even the finger requiring stitches appears to be dry and clean since yesterday. He slowly releases Johns hand’s so they rest on the doctor’s thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock slips away to get some supplies, and returns with burn cream and fresh gauze. “May I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks up, half-lidded, and merely shrugs. He is clearly still knackered. Sherlock tries not to smile at the sight of a sleep-rumbled pliant John Watson, and instead begins delicately removing the day-old bandages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*****************************************</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stick in a few places, causing them both to wince, but otherwise it is much easier than the first few days. The skin of John’s forearms is less swollen today, and the bright lobster-red colour has darkened to a reddish-brown Sherlock would have associated with a scab, so he assumes that means it is healing correctly. The hands and fingers are the worst of it. Most of the lacerations from the shards of plastic are closing up, but there are some that are deeper than others. The stitches in the burned skin of John’s left ring finger look monstrous and painful, like something out of a cheap horror movie. The initially bright white spots that had emerged on the back of John’s hands and fingers from the second-degree burns had turned to blisters, ballooning with fluid and turning a most unnatural shade of yellow. The unburned skin around the wounds is a bit ragged and beginning to take on a grey hue as it sloughs off, while the injured areas all have a shine to them as the new skin is being created. Overall, it’s simply horrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*****************************************</span>

</p><p>
  <span>He had seen burnt flesh before. Sherlock has seen all kinds of horrifying things while on cases. But the victims were usually dead or, if not, not of any familiarity to him so he could easily compartmentalize their plight. File it away until the case was solved and then delete it. But this was John. <em> His </em> John. His friend, his colleague, his conductor of light. Sherlock grimaces in sympathy at the sight, but says nothing. What is there to say? “I hate to see you like this, please stop being hurt immediately, by the way I think I love you?” Somehow, he doubts that would be of any help in this situation and keeps it to himself. Instead, he begins the process of applying burn cream and rewrapping John’s fingers, palms, and arms up to his elbows. Sherlock is so intent on his work, that he is startled to find John staring him when he finally finishes and looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened? With the kettle, I mean. I can’t quite... It’s a little fuzzy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock inhales very slowly and looks up at the ceiling, hoping John wouldn’t notice how shaky the breath has been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As far as I’ve been able to put together, the kettle had a minor crack in it either from age or maybe it had been damaged somehow, and the repetitive heating and cooling of it caused a-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, Sherlock, I don’t want an analysis of why the kettle failed. What happened? Why can’t I remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn, John is too clever this morning. Sherlock feigns insult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was <em> getting </em> to that bit, John. If you would permit me to continue?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In lieu of a response, John presses his lips together tightly and tilts his head up to take a deep breath, mimicking Sherlock’s earlier motions to steady himself. The detective presses on as if given verbal acknowledgment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I woke to a sound like a loud crack or muffled explosion, which I assume was the kettle, but nothing after that for approximately 20 seconds. By the time I had managed to find my slippers, the faucet had come on. I saw your back at first, facing the sink, and the steaming water all over the counter and the floor. You didn’t make a sound, John, until I came in and got your attention and even then, you seemed dazed or... absent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock frowns at himself, not usually one to soften his deductions. ‘Disassociated’ was the word he was thinking, but didn’t say.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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